


Fool's Gold (The Snowglobe Remix)

by dirigibleplumbing



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: American Realist Painters of the Mid-20th Century, Cosmic Cube, Dreams vs. Reality, Getting Together, Kobik (Marvel) - Freeform, Living Together, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Pleasant Hill (Marvel), Surreal, crapsaccharine world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleplumbing/pseuds/dirigibleplumbing
Summary: Sometimes, Steve and Tony's life in the idyllic town of Pleasant Hill just feels...off.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 40
Collections: 2021 Captain America/Iron Man Remix Relay





	Fool's Gold (The Snowglobe Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Our House in Pleasant Hill (Building Your Home Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28867245) by [navaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/pseuds/navaan). 



Tony—one foot on the curb, the other still in the air—flails, fails to catch his balance, hears brakes screeching, horns honking, feels fingers grasping his wrist—feels time suspend. Like being hung on wires over a stage. And then with an intake of breath the streets of Pleasant Hill move around him again. The hand on him tugs him all the way back to the sidewalk, spinning him into an off-kilter pirouette so he faces his rescuer. 

The man with his hand on Tony is broad and blond, and Tony’s never seen a sadder or more beautiful smile. A fleeting, intrusive thought tells him that this is the best day of his life. “Thanks,” Tony says, smiling back into bright, clever eyes. He feels he should explain why he almost stepped into traffic, but all he has is the provably false impression that the street had been empty a second ago. “Can I thank you more over coffee?” 

“Sure,” the guy says, a blush turning his ears the color of a strawberry milkshake. “I’m Steve.” 

* * *

The PH Diner—Tony’s sure it’s meant to stand for Pleasant Hill, but Tony always thinks of acids and bases—is halfway an Edward Hopper painting, half a puddle of motor oil reflecting a landscape of neon and fog. The booth seats are tomato-red vinyl and shiny enough to be used as rearview mirrors. The parking lot is always empty and damp with rain or melted snow, one streetlamp flickering in and out, the sound of a suspended street sign creaking in the wind overpowering the sizzle of the deep fryer. The town is gray through the big windows, far foggier than it should be this time of year—whatever time of year that is. The bright lights, gleaming vinyl tabletops, and laminated menus make the dull purple-gray outside all the more bleak. 

This is the third date he’s had with Steve—Tony thinks it’s a date, anyway. They share onion rings and fries, Steve with a little white paper tub of mayonnaise, Tony with a perfect blend of ketchup and hot sauce on his now-empty salad plate, the two of them arguing over the other’s condiment choices even as they reach across the table to use them. Steve inhales the second basket of fries, licking mayo, ketchup, and hot sauce off the fingers of one hand as he uses the other to show Tony photos of Edward Hopper paintings on his smartphone. 

Most of the artists Steve shows him are from the first three or four decades of the 20th century. Tony tries to think of something thoughtful and encouraging to say in response to Steve’s enthusiastic digression into mid-century modernist realist painting, but instead he thinks how happy Steve looks, gesturing with a french fry, a vivid, eager look in his eyes incongruous with the image he’s brandishing—a lonely painting of a man by himself in a corner office. Tony thinks about MOS transistors, OLED screens, about the darkening violet sky and the corners of the horizon that look almost green, about the bright pink neon diner sign casting magenta highlights across the pavement, about how Tony can never deserve someone like Steve, Tony’s a liar and a killer and Steve’s—Steve’s—

“Here I thought _Nighthawks_ was just the name of a Tom Waits album,” Tony says at last. 

“I’ve heard of that one,” Steve says, chuckling. Tony gets the impression that Steve doesn’t usually pay attention to music, TV, or movies, but he keeps a running list on his notes app of the bands, shows, and films Tony recommends, and each time Tony glimpses it new ones are crossed off. 

Their burgers arrive, then Tony’s coffee, then Steve’s next two burgers, and Steve painstakingly transcribes all of Tony’s song recommendations, and after that when they walk to Harold’s Ice Cream Parlor, Steve takes Tony’s hand and doesn’t let go until their milkshakes arrive, so maybe it was a date after all. 

* * *

Steve visits Tony at the garage. Tony recognizes his booted footsteps and the smell of Chinese takeout and emerges from under the car he’s working on, wiping his hands on a rag. 

He can’t untangle the knot of fondness, exasperation, and familiarity he feels seeing Steve here, in his workspace, forcing food on him when Tony’s told him how excited he was to work on this vintage European model, and how the parts for it had just come in that morning. 

Steve ends up staying after they eat, even when Tony disappears under the car again. Steve draws doodles on his phone and tells Tony light-hearted war stories that don’t feature the name of a single person, place, battle, or even weapon. Tony doesn’t press it; it means a lot to him that Steve is talking to him about this at all, and everyone has their own way of processing trauma. Tony still has those dreams about being lost in a place that’s at once a desert and a jungle, his clothes as heavy as a suit of armor, a pain in his chest that he only realized exists in the waking world because of the way it dissipates in Steve’s presence. 

He’s struck by the idle thought that he and Steve could talk about guns, since Tony knows guns, too. Maybe use it as a starting point to talking about the war and the haunted expressions that sometimes cloud Steve’s face. But then Tony can’t think of the name of a single model of firearm, or when he last used one, or why so many details about propellants and rapid exothermic combustion leap to the front of his mind. So he kisses Steve instead. 

* * *

Steve’s house is like a dollhouse made life-size, frosted in bric-a-brac and slightly out of scale with the country road and oak-strewn hillside that surround it. Despite being as empty as an Edward Hopper painting, it’s a warm refuge of hardwood and creaking stairs. 

“It’s lovely,” Tony says, even as he imagines how he’d fill it up if he had unlimited funds. 

“I know it’s not much,” Steve says with a little grimace. 

“It’s better than my apartment over the garage.” 

“It’s home,” Steve says, smiling, but he’s looking at Tony when he says it.

* * *

The only sign of snow is the frost forming small spiderweb cracks in the corners of shop windows and the wet sound of tires. Mayor Hill and Dr. Selvig are across the street, standing very close as they speak; not like they’re intimate, but like they’re speaking in hushed voices. Dan from the scrapyard drives by, his pickup loaded with salvage, waving as he passes. 

Steve emerges from the coffee shop with a pair of steaming paper cups. Tony takes his eagerly, the warmth already reaching him through his gloves. “You brought me coffee,” he says, giving Steve a peck on the cheek. “My hero.” 

* * *

Snowfall doesn’t come with a soundtrack like rainfall, but even cocooned in Steve’s duvet, the curtains drawn, Tony can feel the town becoming enveloped in a blanket of snow. 

“Do you ever think,” Steve begins, resting his chin on Tony’s head, “that I’m holding you back?” 

“What?” Tony starts to sit up, turn to look Steve in the face, but Steve’s arm around his shoulders keeps him in place. 

“I feel like I’m all that’s keeping you in Pleasant Hill.” 

“Where’s this coming from?”

“It’s just—I know you love your work at the garage. But you could do _anything_. You’re a genius, you could—” 

“Hardly. That’s just my ego talking—” 

“The things you talk about sometimes—forcefields and jetboots and—” 

“Is this because I hung some things in the spare closet? Because I—” 

“What?” Steve releases Tony, looking him in the eye, rearranging the duvet over their shoulders. 

“It’s weird, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be pushy, I just, I know we haven’t been together that long—” 

“Tony. What are you talking about?” 

“I’m always leaving my stuff here, and last time instead of taking my spare coat I just hung it up in the closet, and then I figured I’d leave a pair of boots here, too, and—” 

“Do you want to move in with me?” 

Tony winces. “I can—” 

“No, I’m asking you, will you move in with me?” 

“What? Why?” 

Steve shrugs, smirking. Snow silently settles onto the roof. “I like having you here.” 

“Yes. Of course. You don’t think it’s too soon?” 

“I feel like I’ve known you for years,” Steve says, then frowns, like he’s not sure why he did. 

* * *

“How was the job with the sheriff?” Steve asks when Tony, fresh from the shower, joins him in the kitchen. 

“What job?” Tony asks, perching on a stool across from where Steve’s dicing onions for their dinner. 

“The mayor told you that Eva had a repair job for you on the edge of town,” Steve says, scraping the onions into a cast iron skillet. Hot oil hisses under them as he pushes them around with a wooden spoon. 

“I was at the garage all day,” Tony says, confused. 

“Here.” Steve takes the lid off a saucepan, takes a scoop with a slotted spoon, and holds it to Tony’s face. “Taste this.” 

“Delicious. Can I help with prep?” 

Later, after a hearty meal, several orgasms, a shared shower, and a couple hours of reading in bed, Tony sleeps, Steve snoring faintly beside him. The snow falling against the windows follows him into his dream. The town of Pleasant Hill is inside of a soap bubble. A little girl watches him. She smiles and waves shyly when she sees him notice her. The world gleams glossy pink and lavender, a miniature rainbow refracting across the surface of the soap bubble. A splash of iridescence against concrete. An oil slick and a sickly-sweet smell. The static snow of an old, detuned television set. _He talks in maths. He buzzes like a fridge. He’s like a detuned radio._

_This is what you get._

* * *

“This isn’t a mocha,” Tony says, peeling the plastic lid off his cup with renewed suspicion. 

“You had two coffees at the diner and a coffee shake at Harold’s. It’s a hot chocolate, which has plenty of caffeine already.” 

“Spoilsport.” 

“It’s past ten at night, indulge me.” 

Tony can never say no to Steve; he takes a sip. “It’s pretty good,” he admits. 

“Glad to hear it,” Steve says, a smile lighting his eyes. 

“Mind if we take a detour to the bookstore on the way back?” 

“What if I have plans for you at home?” 

“Oh, do you have an early morning tomorrow?” 

“No earlier than usual.” 

“Let me buy you a treadmill,” Tony says, not for the first time. “You can still get up with the proverbial bird for your run, but then you can come right back to bed, and get me all sweaty to match, and then we can shower together—” 

“You just want me to bring you coffee in bed.” 

“You got me. Coffee delivery, that’s all you are to me, Rogers.” 

Steve laughs, the vapor of his breath highlighted by the gold beam of a streetlamp. “Remember the first time we met?” 

“Like it was yesterday,” Tony says, and he thinks he’s going to remember Steve’s shy smile and pink ears but instead there’s gold at the edges of his vision, like he’s looking through a gleaming mask, and there are ice crystals on Steve’s eyelashes, and Tony thinks, _It’s really him_ , and _He’s alive_ and when Steve’s eyes open— 

Tony’s stomach flips and they aren’t walking away from the cafe, they’re standing in front of the town museum, and Mayor Hill is chatting pleasantly with Steve. 

“Don’t let us keep you—” Tony starts to say, just as Steve says, “Anything out of the ordinary happening in town?” 

“Not at all,” the mayor says, her smile widening. “Why do you ask?” 

“Old habits,” Steve replies, half-shrugging. 

“Everything’s just like it’s supposed to be. If you see any children around town without their guardians, though, give the sheriff a call, would you?” 

* * *

“Thanks, Otto,” Steve says, as the owner of the PH diner sets their orders on the table between them. 

“No problem,” Otto says, barely sparing them a glance. 

“We should just ask him,” Tony hisses under his breath. 

“No, c’mon, it’s weird,” Steve whispers back, watching Otto’s return to the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. 

“What’s weird is that Otto only moved here a couple weeks ago, and you keep insisting he’s been running the diner for months.” 

“He has,” Steve insists, turning to snag the condiments tray from the table behind him. “This one has the hot sauce you like and a full thing of sugar,” he says by way of explanation, trading out the containers before returning the tray where he found it. 

“Thanks,” Tony says, and forgets what they were arguing about. 

* * *

The floor of the bowling alley is a black and white checkerboard. Tony watches the people in line to rent shoes or waiting for their turn to play and assigns them all to chess pieces. He thinks of the white reflector lines separating lanes on a highway, the way they flash by in his peripheral vision on long drives, caught in a road trance, black, white, off, on, one, zero. 

There’s a kid sitting at the other end of the room, watching Steve and Tony bowl. Tony noticed her when they came in, wondering what adult was responsible for her, but then she slid out of his mind. 

Two guys take the lane next to Steve and Tony’s, one wearing an olive green tee and faded yellow sneakers, the other in a knit purple hat, both nearly Steve’s size. They play side by side in peace for some time, long enough that thoughts of the little girl trickle out of Tony’s consciousness like droplets condensing on the outside of a glass. 

Steve throws the bowling ball—just throws it, like it’s a beachball—across the room and in one motion grabs the guy in the purple hat, flipping him onto his back with a growl. 

“Steve—what—” Tony takes a step toward them and the lights go out. They return a split-second later, feeling brighter and bluer, and when they flicker again Steve’s dressed in red, white, and blue, a metal disk on his back with the same finish as the bowling ball he hurled, and the man in the purple hat is a different man, a violet cowl pulled over his face, a sword tucked into his belt and a gun in each hand. The room snaps into darkness again—dark, light, on, off—and Steve and the other man are gone, a smear of blood left on the polished floor—the lights flash, a warm, dim, yellow that makes Tony blink, and Steve comes toward him, carrying a water bottle from the vending machine, a sheepish expression on his face— 

It’s snowing. Snowflakes fall from the sky, drift up from the ground, fly back and forth. Tony stumbles with vertigo, his vision going gray at the edges. 

Steve catches him and guides him into the entry hall. “Let’s get some real food in you,” Steve says, stomping melted snow off his boots and locking the door behind them. 

Tony rolls his eyes. “C’mon, I ate—” 

“Peanuts from the vending machine don’t count,” Steve replies, eyes twinkling. “You can pick the pizza toppings.” 

“Fine,” Tony grouses. He takes his phone from his coat pocket and pulls up the app for the only pizza place in town that delivers. “But I’m buying.” 

“Sure thing, Mr. Moneybags.” 

* * *

It’s cold enough that Tony’s breath comes out in a mist that mingles with the low, close clouds. 

“Dragon breath,” Steve says, mimicking him. 

Their feet crunch over frost-tipped grass. The fog is so thick that it obscures the outline of the gazebo barely twenty yards away. “If you’re a dragon,” Tony says, “then I guess I’ll have to put on my shining armor and defeat you.” 

“How’re you going to do that? A metal suit doesn’t seem like a great outfit to fight a fire-breather.” Steve leans in and breathes, wet and warm, against Tony’s face, as if to demonstrate. 

Tony checks the park for anyone who might be inconvenienced by what’s about to happen, but the closest people are across the street, enjoying hot drinks from the cafe, stopping outside the thrift store to browse the one-dollar paperbacks, window shopping, congregating in little clumps to chat. “Well, _obviously_ ,” Tony begins, “I’d have to fly to China and find the magic herb that sends you into a deep, magical sleep.” Then he tackles Steve. 

Steve quickly gets the upper hand, of course, and they end up laughing, rolling and wrestling over the grass. The dirt is frozen solid, so it’s only leaves that stick to their wool coats and knitted scarves. Tony manages to push himself halfway up, and is ready to spring at Steve again when Steve straddles him and pins him to the ground. 

“C’mon Steve,” Tony says, wriggling under Steve’s weight, answering Steve’s smirk with one of his own. “What’re you waiting for?” 

All at once Steve is on his feet, eyes wide. 

“Shit.” Tony scrambles to his feet, too, but when he tries to approach Steve steps back, shaking his head. “What’s wrong? What do you need?” 

“I can’t,” Steve says, sounding more miserable and terrified than Tony’s ever seen him. “Not again, don’t—” 

The world tilts. For a moment, Tony is weightless, like he’s standing in an accelerating elevator, and the snow is rising from his feet toward the sky. 

When he lands, the soles of his boots are on pale gray pavement, the sky has taken on a cyan cast, and Steve has an arm around his shoulders. “—deciding how to celebrate our anniversary,” Steve is saying. 

Mayor Hill nods politely. 

“It’s not our anniversary,” Tony teases, an old argument that draws a fond smile onto Steve’s face. 

“I like observing milestones,” Steve says. “It’s the town’s bicentennial coming up soon, too, right?” 

“It sure is,” Mayor Hill says. 

* * *

The store’s PA system starts playing “Singin’ in the Rain,” the way it always does when the automated misters in the produce section turn on. Tony imagines that the store’s employees tire of that gimmick very quickly. 

“Flat-leaf parsley or curly-leaf?” Steve asks. 

Before Tony can reply, a man with an overloaded shopping cart plows by, jostling Steve’s shoulder as he does. Steve drops the shopping basket, grabs the man by the shoulders and shoves him against the glass door of the dairy section. 

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the man—Brian someone, Tony thinks—yells, trying to push Steve off him. 

“Hey,” Tony says, making sure Steve knows exactly where he is before he sets a hand on Steve’s shoulder. He’s not sure what’s happening, how Steve moved so fast, if this is a PTSD thing or a Steve thing or if there’s some kind of history between him and Brian. 

Tony’s hand makes contact with Steve and instead of standing on the scuffed linoleum of the town health-food co-op under the fluorescent lights listening to Gene Kelly through crappy speakers he’s in free-fall, his stomach swirling, white dots like snowflakes dancing in front of his eyes, and Steve’s dressed like a 4th of July mascot and he has Brian, wearing a gaudy red and yellow costume, pinned against the wall of a skyscraper. _Stand down, Hyperion_ , Steve’s voice says, but Steve’s mouth isn’t moving. 

Tony gives his head a shake, like he can dislodge the intrusion into his consciousness. A little girl watches him from the meat-substitute section. 

Another voice, a woman’s, maybe Hill’s, says, _Better give Stark something to do_. 

“Tony?” 

Tony looks up from the parsley he’s de-stemming into the compost bin. “Hmm?” 

Steve chuckles. “Did you even hear what I said? And I think your water’s boiling.” 

“Shit, thanks.” Tony wipes his hands on his apron and grabs the box of pasta from beside his cutting board. “Sorry, what were you saying?” 

“I was saying, are you sure you want to take on renovating and redecorating this whole place by yourself?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony says absently, pouring fusilli into the saucepan. 

He doesn’t realize he’s agreed to anything until Steve says, “Great. Mayor Hill recommended someone. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” 

* * *

The decorator, Alicia, is tall and severe, wearing a black silk jumpsuit with a white belt and white boots. Her blonde hair is almost as pale as her hands. 

“Why don’t I just show you around,” Tony says, trying to put his finger on why she makes him feel so ill-at-ease, or why none of her sketches and color palettes appeal to him. It’s not like _he_ knows anything about interior design. 

The clack of Alicia’s heels on the tile send a chill up Tony’s spine. “The kitchen,” he says, like it isn’t self-evident, eyes darting to where she’s standing, tapping a note on her tablet. Every time he looks over at her, he expects to see something—someone?—different. 

He leads her through the living room, the dining room, the den, the spare bedroom they use as a TV room. The idea of showing her the space he’s turned into a workshop makes his hair stand on end, but she just hums when she sees it and makes another note on her tablet. 

The bedroom door is open when Tony reaches the top of the stairs—but it isn’t the bedroom—the walls are gray and sterile, covered in electronic panels and hardware, and Alicia is already standing inside, regarding him coolly—or it looks like Alicia, but her hair is dark, and her blank expression is a mask, a gold plate fitted over her face. A voice that sounds like his own says, _I’m sorry. But—you used to be different, Whitney. You used to be vibrant, alive._ A second memory is layered over it—though neither can be a memory, since they didn’t happen—and Tony’s cuffed to the wall by metal bands— _I know you without the mask, I recognize you_ —but he doesn’t, he’s never seen this woman before today, he shouldn’t know her voice, it shouldn’t make his blood run cold with dread, he shouldn’t know it well enough to recognize it when she says, _Break someone's spirit often enough and it’ll scar over._

Tony opens the door to the bedroom. Alicia steps inside, and he follows after her. It’s just Steve’s bedroom, walls the same real-estate-agent white as the rest of the house, utilitarian black-out curtains over the windows, empty other than the old-fashioned bed, a single nightstand, and a pair of matching dressers. Steve’s tidied away the small piles of clothes that usually litter the floor, leaching it of some of its warmth—some big, thick rugs would help with that, Tony thinks—and made the bed with military precision. 

“Real soldier, huh?” Alicia says. 

The room feels suddenly lacking. The words _sumptuous_ and _luxurious_ spring to mind. He pictures carved posts, piles of cushions, velvet upholstery. He doesn’t know where it comes from, when his little room above the garage had made this place look positively extravagant. “It could be more…” 

“You can do better,” Alicia agrees. Her heeled boots advance on him. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tony says carefully. “Some color would be nice, though.” 

* * *

“I don’t get a hint?” Steve asks. They’ve moved the bed up to the attic while the rest of the house is being renovated. The sound of rain against the roof surges. “I’ll be sleeping there too, y’know.” 

“You’re the one who put me in charge,” Tony says groggily, burrowing his face into Steve’s shoulder. “Having second thoughts?” 

“Never,” Steve says, a smile in his voice that makes Tony melt. 

Steve should second thoughts, Tony thinks. After what Tony put him through. The betrayal, the fighting, all of Tony’s lies. Steve’s memories— 

“It’s a surprise,” Tony says. “You’re gonna love it.” 

“I’m sure I will.” 

“Hey.” It’s suddenly important that Tony says this before he falls asleep. “Thanks for letting me switch decorators.” 

“It’s no problem,” Steve assures him. “Honestly, she gave me a weird feeling, too.” 

“Yeah? How so?” 

“Oh, I dunno.” After a pause so long Tony thinks Steve’s fallen asleep, he says, “I didn’t like how she looked at you.” 

“Me neither,” Tony murmurs. 

In the morning, Steve pulls the curtains open to a clear sky and several feet of fresh, powdery snow on the ground. 

* * *

“Ta da!” Tony takes his hand off Steve’s eyes. 

“Wow,” Steve says, stepping up to one of the framed prints hanging on the wall. “Is this O’Keefe?” 

“Yeah, uh, I was looking at the American realists, you know, but all the Hoppers I found reproductions of seemed too cold and lonely for a bedroom, and I thought some of her early Precisionist stuff might be your style? And I thought the Wyeth ones matched the backyard.” 

“It’s perfect, Tony.” 

Tony matches Steve’s smile with a relieved one of his own. “Oh, good. And the color scheme’s okay?” 

“Is that gold leaf on the wallpaper?” 

“No,” Tony says, a little defensive. “Gold foil.” 

Steve chuckles. “Oh, well, if it’s gold foil, then—” 

“Oh, shut up. You don’t have to say anything about the most important part?” 

“What, this giant slab in the middle of the room?” 

“It’s a California King-sized bed,” Tony says proudly. The crimson bedspread matches the wallpaper perfectly. 

Steve hums. “Y’know,” he says slowly, “I’m not sure this is the right bed for us. I think you’re going to have to convince me.” 

Tony takes Steve’s hand and lets himself be pushed across the mattress with a puff of laughter. 

* * *

“Bad dream?” Steve asks, setting Tony’s mug on the nightstand. It’s Tony’s favorite, the yellow one with the black cat. 

“Not really,” Tony says, sitting up and making room for Steve to join him. “Weird, though.” 

“Wanna tell me about it?” 

“The town was in this, I don’t know, fish bowl. Like it was under a bell jar, except round, almost like a snowglobe.” 

Steve hums and settles under the covers beside him, an arm around Tony’s waist. 

“So we were just sort of floating, weightless, inside of this glass bowl, except it wasn’t glass, really, it was some kind of energy, with these little pink and purple pulses running through it, and the whole thing was hovering in this kind of—I don’t know, wireframe. Like a cube, but just the outline, like it was a neon sign.” 

“Too much Twin Peaks before bed?” 

“Maybe,” Tony says, laughing a little. He takes a sip of his coffee. Steve made it perfectly, like he always does, with as much sugar as Tony wants, rather than the amount he says he takes. 

* * *

“Do you see an adult with that little girl?” 

“What little girl?” Tony tries to follow Steve’s gaze across the park, but the streets are empty. The fog is back, thick and tinged with the rusty orange of twilight. 

“You know,” Steve says, chewing on his lip as he turns back to face Tony, “before I met you, it was—a lot. I’m not all better, you know, just like that, it’s a long road to stability with PTSD, but you’ve been helping so much. Just being with you helps.” 

“I’m so glad,” Tony says, surprised to find he’s shivering. Isn’t it August? “That’s all I want to do, Steve.” 

“I love you,” Steve whispers, wrapping his arms around Tony. 

“I’ve loved you for so long, Steve.” 

Cyan light from the marquee of a closed-down gas station cuts through the orange-tinged fog, illuminating a snowflake as it falls, right in the scant gap separating Steve’s face from Tony’s. The wind picks up. Another flake catches in Steve’s eyelashes, then the shoulders of his coat, in the skin of his knuckles, on the tips of his ears. 

“It’s happening again,” Steve breathes, tugging Tony in closer. “I hear voices, sometimes. Voices I’m supposed to know. Then the ground shakes and there’s snow everywhere—always snow—like back on the front.” 

“Steve—” 

“And I know it sounds crazy,” Steve goes on, his voice firm, “but when I try to remember, it’s always stuff from a World War II movie—” 

“Like you’re remembering things that can’t be real.” 

“Exactly like that. Oh, Tony, you too?” 

“I…” Tony blinks snow out of his eyes. Steve’s limned in fuchsia light, like he’s standing in front of the sign of the PH Diner. Pine trees shift in the wind behind him, rendered into dark silhouettes by the sinking sun. “Steve, I see this girl—and sometimes—the snow and—aren’t things just, just _off_ sometimes?” 

Maria Hill cuts across the grass toward them, moving briskly. The snow comes heavier, great clumps of it catching on their hair and skin, on their bare fingers—if it’s not August, what month is it?—and Tony’s weightless and falling, Steve clinging to him, the pavement heaving and undulating like a storm at sea. The park is full of people, all of them lurching and stumbling, like they can’t trust the ground beneath their feet. Brian is one of them, walking so close to Hill that he practically body-checks her as he brushes past. Alicia is there too, and the guys from the bowling alley, and Otto from the diner—Alicia’s hair is black, snarled with snowflakes, her face obscured by a golden mask—

“We’re trapped,” Steve says. Maria is back in her SHIELD uniform, Hyperion and Zemo in their costumes, and—oh god—Whitney, Dr. Selvig, Elektra, Crossbones, Graviton, the latest Whiplash—

The little girl is there, the night sky dark around her, her pale pigtails the same color as the snow. She’s holding something in her hands, a toy—a snowglobe—and something inside it glitters, tiny golden dots of light like lit windows, sparks of neon curling and refracting along the surface of the glass—

A childlike voice whispers, _I’m sorry_. 

The glass shatters—her snowglobe, the fishbowl around the town, the goddamn StarkTech forcefield—

* * *

Tony’s eyes dart away—Steve’s caught him staring across the table. Tony swallows and tries to focus his attention on Sam. Sam, who is Captain America now, and team leader, and will notice if Tony's not paying attention to the team meeting. 

It’s winding down, thank god. Tony’s tie has felt too tight since he stepped into the room. Everyone knows the story now, even those who hadn’t been there. The escaped villains and the missing Cosmic Cube—the little girl, Kobik, Cube, whatever she was—have meant every working superhero has at least a passing knowledge of Pleasant Hill, SHIELD’s mild-altering incarceration center extraordinaire. 

“Hill called it a ‘goddamn Norman Rockwell painting,’” Sam says, to some laughter. But Tony knows better—he’s too familiar now with midcentury representational art to miss what an inaccurate analogy that is. 

The people in Rockwell paintings are expressive. Their facial expressions are big, their gestures bigger. The world he paints is bright, with only the palest of shadows. They’re arranged on the page like they’re choreographed for the stage, and they move like the audience needs to see what they’re doing from the other end of the theater. 

“Is that true?” someone says. Tony’s missed another chunk of the conversation. He’s not sure who asked the question, and only realizes it’s pointed at him when he looks up to see everyone looking at him. 

Everyone who isn’t looking at Steve, that is. 

Tony musters up a placid mask of polite interest. “Is what true?” 

“You and Steve were Pleasant Hill married,” Sam says. 

“We lived together,” Steve says tightly. Tony wishes he could resent Steve for the flood of relief he feels at being spared coming up with a reply himself. 

Sam lets the matter drop, fortunately. Less fortunately, the topic turns to mind control and mindwipes. Perfect. Just in case Steve forgot why he and Tony weren't friendly before this, why they aren't on the same team, the rest of the meeting will remind him. Tony ducks his head and keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, careful to avoid any chance of eye contact with Steve. 

Tony stands up the moment the meeting closes. He’s turning away from the table, composing press releases in his head, when Steve appears in front of him. Tony has one foot on the ground, the other still in the air—he flails, fails to catch his balance, feels fingers grasping his wrist. The hand on him tugs him into a corner of the quickly emptying room. 

“Can I have a word?” Steve says, not taking his hand away. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you okay?” 

Tony isn’t sure whether it’s politeness or habit that makes Steve ask, or if it’s some kind of trick question. His answer is the same regardless. “I’m fine, Cap.” 

“Sam’s Cap right now.” 

“Of course. I apologize, Commander Rogers.” 

“Don’t—is it like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“You called me Steve,” Steve says. “In Pleasant Hill.” 

Tony chooses his next words carefully. “We’re not in Pleasant Hill any more.” 

Something in Steve’s face closes off. Tony admonishes himself for the surge of hurt he feels seeing it. It’s better to get this over with now. 

“Our minds were wiped,” Tony reminds him. “We were mind-controlled.” 

“Is that how you see it?” 

“That’s what happened.” 

“You could call me Steve.” 

“I,” Tony starts, trying to think over the alarms going off in his head. “I didn’t know we were on Steve and Tony terms. Before—before Pleasant Hill. You were angry with me. With good reason.” 

There’s a strawberry-milkshake-colored tinge flushing Steve’s face and ears. Tony’s heart flutters to see it. 

Steve clears his throat. “We were on Steve and Tony terms,” he says. 

“Oh. I’m glad to hear that.” 

“Are you?” 

“Steve,” Tony says, wishing he could stop his heart racing. “What do you want?” 

He stops himself from saying more. _Did you really want me, will you ever want to speak to me again, how can you bear to be in the same room as me?_

“I want to go home,” Steve says. 

Tony pulls away. Steve’s hand falls from his wrist. “Right. I won’t keep you, then.” 

“Tony, wait!” 

Tony can never say no to Steve. He freezes. 

“I meant—I was thinking of the house in Pleasant Hill,” Steve says. “Or maybe the mansion. But I meant you.” 

Tony takes an involuntary step forward before he can stop himself. 

“You’re my home, Tony.” 

“Does that” —Tony tries for a bright, flirtatious grin, knows he’s missing the mark— “mean you want to come back to my place?” 

The light in Steve’s eyes is golden sunlight. “Seems fair. You spent all that time staying at mine.” 

“Are you volunteering to redecorate?” 

“If you want me to hang an American flag in the bedroom, all you have to do is ask,” Steve says, then slots their mouths together in a kiss. He doesn’t taste like snow.

“It won’t be like it was there,” Tony says when they pull apart. 

“I hope not,” Steve says, his hands sliding inside of Tony’s suit jacket. “We’ll be awake this time.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Future Imperfect (the false sense of security remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194239) by [Lets_call_me_Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lets_call_me_Lily/pseuds/Lets_call_me_Lily)




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